Six days and six nights later, the bump of a boat against a dock jolted Volthorn awake. Stone walls towered over him, framed by a purple sky.
“We’re almost there, General,” said a sailor at Volthorn’s side, deft hands tying a mooring rope to the gunnel. “Just making a quick stop at Irongate Isle.”
Volthorn rolled into a sitting position, groaning as his stiff muscles resisted. It had been a long six days. Two of those he had spent in the saddle, galloping east down the Mera Valley, trading his horse out at army way stations. The last four he’d spent on a barge, sailing day and night down the Silvermoss River.
He stared at the cliffs towering above them. Irongate Isle, a hunk of rock in the middle of the Silvermoss, was where Elandria held its most dangerous prisoners. He had seen the prison many times from a distance, but his military duties had never brought him inside. Irongate Isle was administered by the ministry of justice, not the army.
image [https://imgur.com/6dUounz]image [https://i.imgur.com/6dUounz.png]
Irongate Isle. Rendered by the author via Midjourney.
“Hold steady, lads! That’s the way! Hand me some of those boxes!”
The deckhands were unloading a couple crates of fresh provisions for the guards and their prisoners. Volthorn shivered in the early morning chill, wrapping himself deeper into his travel blanket.
The boat rocked as three people stepped aboard from the quay. Two were avirs in guards’ uniforms, probably leaving the island to enjoy a couple days off-duty. The third was a tall, thin human wearing a tattered tunic and trousers—most likely a prisoner just released. His features were nearly indistinguishable in the semidarkness.
Volthorn shifted. Something about this man set him ill at ease—a memory, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He tugged his blanket over his head to cast his face in shadow as he studied the stranger.
The man also appeared to be avoiding attention. He stood alone at the prow, gazing out over the dark river, his face turned away from the eyes of anyone in the boat. Volthorn studied his stance. The man seemed to be a trained warrior, keeping his feet well placed, neither too close together nor too far apart.
The barge cast off from the isle. Soon the sailors were calling to each other, reporting on distances as they guided the barge toward the docks of the city Saven. Even as the barge pitched with the waves, the man stood erect, his legs bending and straightening in rhythm with the boat’s rocking.
As they approached the shore, the sailors’ calls were answered by dockhands on the bank. For a moment, the light of a lantern on shore caught the stranger’s face as he turned, illuminating a sharp nose, chiseled chin, and keen eyes. Fiery eyes.
In a flash, the memory clicked into place. The assassin. The pyromancer that had burst into the palace seven years before and murdered Volthorn’s king. The man who should have been killed for his crime—but wasn’t.
“Rendhart,” Volthorn breathed. Confusion mixed with alarm in his thoughts. What was Rendhart doing here? Why was he walking free?
The man leapt ashore, clearing the four feet still between the dock and the boat.
Volthorn sprang to his feet. “Stop him!”
The man slipped through the gathered dockhands, moving like a wisp of smoke.
Sailors looked about in confusion. Volthorn pushed past them, stumbling over crates and ropes in the semidarkness. “That man!” he said. “Seize him!”
Rendhart reached the edge of the quay and broke into a run.
Volthorn leapt from the boat to the dock. He stumbled, banging his knee into the wood, but straightened and charged through the dockhands. He stopped at the edge of the dock, looking around. Darkness and shadow lay before him—an impenetrable maze of buildings and narrow alleys. He saw no sign of the man.
“Tyrant’s horns,” Volthorn cursed.
“Sir,” said a voice behind him. “Is something amiss?”
Volthorn pivoted, coming face-to-face with one of the prison guards that had been on the barge.
“Why is Rendhart free?” Volthorn demanded.
“That man?” said the guard. “He was released early this morning.”
“On whose command?”
“By special order of the chief magistrate.”
“Cymer?”
The guard shrugged. “I believe so, sir.”
Volthorn clenched his fist. Of course this disaster would be Cymer’s doing. What was the chief magistrate thinking?
The barge captain jogged up to join them. “General Skarr,” he said, saluting. “Is everything all right?”
Volthorn turned, searching the dark riverfront one more time. His mind began to calculate all the harm Rendhart was capable of inflicting in the coming hours—and what Volthorn would need to do to counter it. “No,” he replied finally. “Something is wrong. Something is very wrong indeed.”
* * * * *
Durrin kept to the shadows, passing from alley to alley, moving at a brisk walk. He paused at a corner, listening for any sign of pursuit.
Nothing.
He kept walking, choosing his route erratically, but always away from the river. Who was the korrik that had pursued him as he left the boat? Was his sudden freedom too good to be true—had there been a mistake? Any minute, he expected to hear soldiers’ cries behind him, an alarm raised, lanterns flashing in the dark. Just like seven years ago. He had run through these same streets then—an assassin, fleeing the scene of his success. Was this the corner where the arrow had scathed his arm? Was that the street where he had torched the wagon to block his pursuers?
Once clear of the river district, Durrin ducked into a corner, clothing himself in darkness. He patted the purse Cymer had given him, tied to his belt. A hundred shekels. Enough to get him all the way back to Calamar, if he used it carefully.
Back to Calamar. Back to the prize that awaited him, seven years overdue. Back to his destiny.
The thought sent thrills down his spine.
Durrin returned to the streets. People were starting to come out in the early morning light: craftsmen, tools in hand as they headed to their shops; children with buckets to fetch water; merchants pushing carts, heading to market squares.
He rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a squad of soldiers. For a moment, he froze, about to turn and flee. But his mind worked quickly. Too little time had passed since his flight from the docks for this to be an organized dragnet for him. These soldiers had to be just a regular street patrol. He regained his composure and walked by, earning barely a glance. His heart started to slow.
As he walked, he planned. He itched to be out of this city as fast as he could, but first he needed three things: a horse, supplies, and information.
His stomach rumbled. And a bite to eat. Four things.
Saven was not the city Durrin remembered. It had once been known for its clean and tidy streets. Now he had to step carefully to avoid piles of refuse and debris. Where in a previous decade he had passed through plazas and city squares, he now wound his way through crowded tenements, each wooden hut more ramshackle than the last. The chatter of children and the cries of infants leaked through the thin walls, betraying the crowded conditions inside. Refugees from the war, most likely. Thousands of them.
He had admired this city once. His assignments had taken him here on occasion, typically to gather intel on Elandria’s troop numbers or to deliver a clandestine message to one of Calamar’s many field agents. Saven had always struck him as a pleasant, well-run city, despite the musty river smell that often pervaded it. Now, the whole city felt crowded, dirty, and overburdened.
Durrin did not remember seeing so many soldiers seven years ago. They patrolled the streets in squads of four, set apart by their green surcoats and bronze armor. Whenever they came near, Durrin would shrink into the shadows, trudging along with his head down, shoulders bowed. He knew how to avoid attention.
Something was happening today. There was an energy in the air, an excitement he could sense in those he passed. He crossed a wide street and noticed garland and banners strung from house to house. Preparations for a parade? That might explain so many soldiers.
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As soon as it grew late enough for shops to open, Durrin stopped at a market, quickly ordering only the essentials he would need for his journey: A travel cloak. A pack. A week’s supply of victuals. At a blacksmith, he bought a couple small metal tools—the best substitute for a picklock set he could manage under the circumstances.
His side itched to have a sword hanging from his belt. But that would cost too much and attract too much attention. The sword would have to wait.
A horse, however, couldn’t. Neither could information. And he knew a good place to find both.
* * * * *
Volthorn Skarr strode briskly through the city streets, while a nervous captain tried his best to keep up. “Send messengers to each city gate,” Volthorn ordered. “Have the watch screen every adult male human who attempts to leave, detaining any who match that man’s description. We must not let him escape the city.”
“Yes, General,” the captain said. “Shall I order a search of the streets?”
Volthorn paused, considering. Then he shook his head. “In a city this big, you would never find him. And we can’t afford the soldiers, not today.” He lowered his voice. “Besides—I don’t want to draw too much attention to our search. The chief magistrate and I may have . . . differing opinions about Rendhart’s fate.”
The captain looked confused, but he didn’t ask further questions. He was a good soldier.
“Lastly,” Volthorn said, “I want the processional guard for today doubled.”
The captain nearly missed a step. “Doubled?” he said. “I already have three entire companies.”
“Then make it six,” Volthorn said. “I want a wall of soldiers between the princess and the crowd at all times. And have archers stationed on rooftops along the route.” He ran a finger across the scar on his cheek. “I will not make the same mistake a second time,” he murmured.
* * * * *
Inns. Best places to get information.
Durrin stopped at a large, two-story structure, only a short distance from the west gate of the city. The inn’s sign labeled it the Dozing Donkey, complete with a corresponding caricature. He nodded, satisfied. He preferred large inns over smaller ones; he would attract less attention.
Inside, the main tavern room was warm and snug, with a fire already kindled in the hearth. Behind the counter he found a young avir with a mop of red hair spilling from beneath his cap. He was probably the innkeeper’s son. Durrin plopped a small piece of silver on the counter. “A bite of breakfast when it’s ready,” he said, careful to speak with the crisp consonants of an Elandrian accent.
“Anything else?” the assistant said, sweeping the silver into a pocket of his apron.
“I’m looking for a horse,” Durrin said. “Any for sale?”
“Only one mare,” the avir said. “And she’ll cost you eighty shekels.”
Durrin bit back a curse. Eighty shekels for a horse? Wartime prices. After his earlier purchases, he barely had eighty shekels left in his bag, and he would need much of that on the road. “She better be worth that much,” Durrin said. “Let me see her.”
The redhead led Durrin through a couple doors, past a small courtyard, and into a stable. As they entered, two swifters looked up from a bed of hay, their pointed ears pricking up. Swifters had few possessions (being unable to carry anything except in their jaws), so most found lodging in the lofts or barns of other dwellings. These two swifters probably lived in the stable for free, in return for keeping an eye on the animals. Once they saw the avir with Durrin, they settled back down.
True to the inn’s name, the stable held several dozing donkeys, as well as a handful of horses. The innkeeper’s assistant showed Durrin the one for sale. It was old and small, probably passed up for military use. Still, it looked fit enough to hold Durrin’s weight. And he wasn’t in a position to pay top shekel.
“For that mangy piece of leather, I’ll give you thirty shekels,” Durrin said.
“The price is eighty shekels,” the boy said. “No use haggling with me—my father doesn’t let me. Says I’m too young.”
That was obviously a lie, and an expert way to begin the haggle. This boy knew what he was about.
“No deal then,” Durrin retorted. “Last night I met a merchant who would sell me a horse half as old as this for thirty-five shekels.”
The boy didn’t bat an eye. “Then you’re a fool not to have taken him up on it. At such a bargain, it’s surely sold by now. Eighty shekels.”
“Go find your father and tell him I’ll pay him forty shekels, no more,” said Durrin.
The boy hesitated. Hah! Durrin had called his bluff; the boy was fully authorized to negotiate, and retreating behind his father was a blow to his pride he was unwilling to take. “He’s busy attending to travelers,” the boy said finally. “But tell you what: Since today is a holiday, I’ll take three shekels off the price.”
Durrin shook his head. “You really expect someone to buy this mare for seventy-five shekels? Only a fool would pay more than forty-five for her, and a desperate fool at that.”
“You must be desperate, then, to be offering forty-five shekels,” the boy said.
“I’m offering forty-two,” Durrin said. “Or no deal.”
The boy held up his hands. “My father would be furious if I sold the mare for less than seventy-five.”
Durrin turned to leave. “Very well. I’ll look elsewhere.”
He exited the stable and was about to reenter the main inn when the boy caught up to him. “Seventy,” he said breathlessly. “Take it or leave it.”
“Listen,” said Durrin, turning in the doorway. “I have to get all the way to Solapharia in the next month, and I have only so much money to get me there. The most I can afford for her is forty-five shekels.” All of which was true, except for his destination.
The redhead put his hands on his hips. “And you think we’re sitting on piles of money here? We paid good silver for this mare, and we’re not going to sell ourselves short just because you’re a cheapskate. But seeing you’re in a bind, I’ll be generous and sell her for sixty-five shekels.”
“Fifty,” said Durrin.
This time it was the boy who turned to go. “Sixty-five is my best offer,” he said over his shoulder. “I have chores to do.”
Durrin felt no need to look desperate by giving chase. Before the boy could leave the courtyard, Durrin called, “Fifty-five.”
The boy hesitated. “Sixty.”
“Deal,” Durrin said.
They shook hands, then returned to the inn. “I’ll pay for the horse now,” Durrin said. “Then I want some food.”
The boy put a balance on the counter, then placed a fifty-shekel weight and a ten-shekel weight on one of the balance’s two trays.
Durrin opened the purse of money that Cymer had given him. Digging around, he found three chunks of silver that he guessed weighed roughly fifteen shekels each. He drew them out. “Three twenty-shekel pieces,” he said.
As Durrin placed the silver on the empty tray, he began subtly twitching the smallest finger of his hand. Deep inside him, the spark of pyromancy, dormant for so many years, flickered with feeble life. Invisible threads of energy began to wrap around his hand.
With the silver counterbalancing the weights, the balance’s arm began to straighten, the arrow in the middle swinging closer to the center—but still fifteen shekels short of reaching it.
Before the arm had come to rest, however, Durrin twisted his wrist. Like a doll on invisible strings, the tray was pulled downward, the chords of its momentum entwined with those swirling around Durrin’s fingers. Finally, it stabilized at equilibrium for a second. Then two seconds.
“Nice weights,” Durrin said, picking up the fifty-shekel weighing stone and examining it. The trays fell out of balance with a loud clang. “Granite?” he guessed.
“Diorite,” the boy said, sweeping Durrin’s silver off the tray and stowing it beneath the counter. “Shipped from Orlan.”
“A good investment,” Durrin said, setting the weight back on the counter. “Now about that breakfast.”
As the boy disappeared around the corner, Durrin let his muscles sag. Altering the momentum of the balance hadn’t required much pyromantic strength—the trick was mainly technique—but in his current state, he didn’t have much strength to give. The spark inside him felt drained, like a dying ember in a cold hearth.
As far as Durrin knew, he was the only pyromancer to ever think of using his powers to cheat a set of scales. He had learned the trick back at the Academy, one particular year when he spent the bulk of his savings on scrolls and codices instead of food. Quite a few merchants had found themselves short-changed that year. Since then, he’d grown more cautious with the technique. Using it now, with his spark so weak, had nearly been a mistake. But sixty shekels for a horse? Durrin had standards.
He had his gear, he had his horse, and he was about to get his meal. That just left Durrin with his most important need: information. While he waited for his meal, he sunk onto a stool by the counter, letting his eyes rove across the common room. The inn had a sprinkling of the usual menagerie: merchants, soldiers, travelers. What surprised him were the large number of families. He counted at least a dozen children crouched over games or running around chasing each other, while their parents did their best to keep them quiet.
“Baked lintels, with some bread on the side,” the innkeeper’s assistant said, setting the meal in front of him.
“Many thanks,” Durrin said. He nodded toward the common room. “Quite a busy morning you’re having.”
“Aye,” the young avir said, dropping a pile of platters into a bucket of water. “Lots of folk come in from the countryside for the coronation.”
So that explained all the soldiers—a wartime coronation. He imagined security would be tight. “When do the ceremonies start?” he said, veiling the fact that he lacked the remotest idea of who was even being crowned.
“An hour or so before noon,” said the avir, scrubbing furiously at his dishes. “A procession will lead Princess Adara down from the palace to the Silvermoss. Will you watch?”
“Hmm,” Durrin grunted. “Not sure.”
As he ate his lintels—which needed more salt—Durrin processed what the avir had told him. Adara, he recalled, was the daughter of the late king. Seven years ago, she’d been only a girl, meaning she would now be in her late teens. Impressive—had the throne really remained vacant for seven years, waiting for the rightful heir to come of age? Kingdoms rarely enjoyed such stability.
He studied the handful of soldiers and officers in the room. Many appeared to be veterans, with well-worn uniforms bleached by the Sun. They looked much different from the fresh-faced, smartly dressed guards Durrin had encountered seven years ago.
From conversations he’d had with other prisoners at Irongate Isle, Durrin knew that a war had been raging for three years between Elandria and Calamar. He needed to get more intel about the safest routes back to his homeland. But if his questions were too probing, the redhead might report him as a spy or informant. This would require subtly.
“I couldn’t believe the news from the front the other day,” Durrin said, deliberately being as vague as possible.
The redhead shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it either. My dad said that Meradov would never fall. He’d been there once. Said the walls were thicker than a house.”
Durrin’s countrymen had taken Meradov? The news surprised and impressed him. Meradov was scarcely a two-week’s march from Saven, and nowhere near the traditional border between Calamar and Elandria. If Calamar’s armies were there, it meant Calamar had taken at least a third of Elandria’s territory. Durrin felt a thrill of satisfaction. His country had always excelled at war.
Outwardly, however, Durrin frowned. “Such a blow,” he said. “I heard we lost nearly thirty thousand.” He invented a specific number in hopes it would garner a specific response. He was right.
The avir waved a hand. “Embellishments. I heard some officers talking just last night. Two or three thousand dead, the rest of the garrison captured. Four thousand or so. Most of our army wasn’t in the city when it came under siege. That’s why it fell so quickly.”
Durrin took another bite of lintels. This news made his journey a little . . . difficult. The city of Meradov controlled the most direct road back to Calamar. But it sounded like that area was a hotbed currently. He would need to find an alternate route.
A teenage girl joined the boy, probably his sister judging by the shared red hair. “Did you hear they’re watching the gates?” she said. “They’re stopping any human males from going out. I think they’re looking for someone.”
“As if today wasn’t crazy enough,” the boy said, rolling his eyes.
Durrin finished his last bite of bread. The gate watch had to be looking for him. Who else? He had suspected escaping this country wouldn’t be so easy.
Durrin waited until the boy and girl had their backs turned, then slipped upstairs, fingering the tools in his pack. Seeing the officers in the common area had sparked an idea.